bloggity blog, Mother Fucking Rant

Witch-hunt … Really?

Here are my two cents. I was holding off giving them but here they fucking are.

Get your delicate eyeballs ready for some foul language, cause I am fucking pissed the fuck off.

Two reasons why it piss me the fuck off when these men call the “outing” of sexual fucking predators a witch-hunt.

Number Fucking One)

It is not a witch-hunt when you are tracking down FUCKING CRIMINALS!

These douchey, entitled, smug men who thought they were so un-fucking-touchable cause of their fame or money or power or whatever, broke the law. You cannot touch someone who doesn’t want your filthy fucking hands on them. You cannot be suggestive towards someone unless they actually have specifically fucking told you that they want you to say dirty shit to them.

I once read something by someone (sorry I cannot give you credit) that was perfect. If you wouldn’t say it or do it to Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, then don’t fucking do it to a woman. Still don’t get it? Go read this.

So, next time you go to send a dick pic to the chick in the apartment across from you or slap an intern’s arse or grab a woman by the (insert any body part here, not just her pussy) imagine the Rock’s face and don’t fucking do it unless she has begged to see your cock.

If she (or he) hasn’t specifically backed up into your personal space and begged you to slap her firm, round buttocks, don’t touch the hiney.  But if someone does back their arse into your personal space, butt-first, and you don’t want their shit-plopper in your face, that ain’t cool either.

If she (or he) hasn’t said something along the lines of “please! For the love of all that is under Odin’s rule, send me a photo of your hard, throbbing cock” don’t send the dick pic.

Number Fucking Two)

Witch-hunt … Really?

You bunch of over-privileged, penis mushrooms. You sack of rich, pig-headed, taint moles.

Are you seriously choosing “Witch-hunt” to describe these law-breakers being outed for sexual harassment against women.

Let’s fucking think about this for a few fucking moments, shall we???

Let us go and check our fucking history books. Go on. I’ll fucking wait.

Are we all back? Fucking brilliant.

Now, before all you blokes get your balls in a twist. Yes, they did burn men in the witch-trials too. I’m not saying they didn’t. They burned fucking children too (the foreskin nuggets) But it is like the whole domestic violence thing. Yes, there are men that are in terrible domestic violence situations out there and they need the same sort of care as the women.

But the numbers are a tad fucking skewed in the “humans with vaginas” direction.

I don’t feel like getting into the horrifying details of the torture and systematic femicide that occurred during the witch trials. If you wish to read about it, I’ll link some sites that go into it a little more.

Don’t compare your fucking hungry cock that you can’t control to the murder and torture and rape of hundreds of thousands of women. Just don’t. Fucking stop it.

If you don’t want a “witch-hunt,” stop fucking diddling women who don’t want your filthy fucking hands on them. End of fucking story.

No more silence!

Light the fucking torches, girls! Grab your bras and pitch forks and tampons and matches. They want a fucking witch-hunt? Give them one!

Time’s up, mother fuckers.

 

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bloggity blog

Australia is like Melisandre’s snatch

I’m Australian. Like, as in, I was born here. Blood-nationality (if there even really is such a random notion) I’m like a slow-cooked stew. But that is not at all what I wanna talk about today. actually I don’t really wanna talk about anything. (But here we are …)

Why don’t I want to do anything?

Cause it is fucking hot here!

Australia is like sitting under Vulcan’s ballsack. (The Roman god of fire not the Trekkie kind)

Australia is like Mordor in the Summer time.

Australia is like Melisandre’s snatch.

Australia is like a giant  bowl of boiling chili. It is hot. Like “hot” hot. Like “fuck off” hot. Like “we have pulled all of our mattresses out into the only A/Ced room” hot. (See the heat is making me WAY more vulgar than I normally am.)

It was 47C here the other day. That is 117F…

If all you lovely Americans, having your snow storms up there, could please send some our way? I would super appreciate that.

Please and thank you.

That’s all I came here to say toady.

No life lessons.

No shiny pearls of fucking wisdom.

Just me bitching because I have to walk around in clothing and I can’t just get around topless like blokes can. And complaining that I am currently using antiperspirant in my bra as well as my armpits because boob sweat is a real problem and it’s super gross.

Now, I’m gonna leave you with that image and go pass out in the lounge room and day dream about winter.

PS Please feel free to tag me or send me picks of your snow. I just wanna look at and imagine I’m rolling around in it. Thanks

Love

Amberley

Oh and I will leave the google link for Hot Australia here because they were fucking hilarious and I couldn’t put them all here…

Art, bloggity blog, writing

Does art have to say something?

As I return to my pour table this week after our many travels, I have found myself asking myself “but what does this piece say?”

My art normally says nothing unless my medium is words, because I choose not to use living subjects. But this is of course not what I fucking mean, is it? What I mean is “what am I trying to say?”

And what is my answer? I dunno, Amberley, what the fuck do you want to say?

I think, most of the time, my art doesn’t say anything. Sometimes, you can see the emotions I was feeling when I made the piece. Sometimes, it is a reflection of my personality. Sometimes, I just liked the way those colours went together or they were the only colours I had.

I think the same can be said for writing too. Sometimes we write something because we want to say something else. Sometimes we directly write about a subject so bluntly it is like getting smacked in the face with a giant dildo. Sometimes, we don’t want to say anything. We just feel like writing an entertaining blood-fest starring jungle pirates and cowboy faeries.

Does it make our work any less valid?

Does it change peoples perception of our work?

And does it even fucking matter what the author/artist wanted to say?

I did a painting a couple of months ago. I completely abstract one. I just liked the colours.

Someone really liked it and wanted it. But they liked it cause they saw a frog in it. I couldn’t see the frog. But they could. I didn’t paint a frog. But they saw one.

So, do we really need to be saying something or expressing something if others will only interpret it their own way anyway? Or is this the point? The sharing. The differnt views.

I dunno.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog

Thoughts on finding new (to you) authors

This morning while checking my email, I saw that Mr Chuck Wendig posted on his blog. His fiction challenge was up and a guest blog post.

I do love these guest blogs.

I’m not sure if Mr W picks his guest posts by hand or if he has a Personal Assistant or if it is part of a magical lottery where authors and bloggers are sent an acceptance letter via mysterious night bird (this sounds familiar…) But however they are chosen, they always great.

Alright, I’m off topic slightly.

However we stumble upon them. Whether it be via another author, a friend, a book you find on sale at a second hand store or their name scrawled on a public bathroom wall, new authors are not exactly a rare find. But a good one is.

In the US, there are around 150,000 trad-pub authors and that number grows all the time. Not to mention all the self-pub authors. So it is basically impossible for us to know them all.

And yet, I feel guilty when I find someone and have to admit I had never heard of them or their books before.

This is, of course, insane.

I remember the day I found out about Holly Black. -The owner of a small bookstore was helping me find something new to read and took one look at my gothness and said “what about Holly Black?”

John Green! -I remember sitting at work and my neice popping in to see me. She was looking super Melancholy, so I asked her, “what’s up?” “John Green just ruined my life!” she spluttered. Now I’m #Nerdfighter for life.

Chuck Palahniuk… -I received a broken and beaten copy of Fight Club from a dear friend, it had been passed down to her from a friend and so on. I have no idea who originally bought it. I cannot remember who I passed it to and I have zero fucking clues as to who might have it today. And seeing as though it was a “pre-movie” copy, it might even be worth a tad… but it was pretty “well read” when I had it… so…

The point I am trying to make is that it really doesn’t matter how we find an author or a book. But every time you do, consider it a small miracle. Because, out of all the books and all the authors and all the readers out there, something brought you together.

Like destiny.

Like star-crossed lovers.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog

Thoughts on hotel rooms and single-parenting

I’m in a hotel room. Again.

No tent for us today. There is something to be said for spending some time in hotel rooms.

I can’t help but think of the people who were in the room before me. The good times had in the room, the fights, the sex, the sadness, the car racing. Yep. We are staying at a hotel on a car racing track.

I wonder how many women have been paid for the use of their orifices in this room.

I wonder about the litres of alcohol and the crazy amounts of drugs that have definitely been consumed in this room.

Hotels seem to be these modern day Sodoms where all the unholy things can happen.

Yet I am sharing my room with my two kids and about forty plush toys.

Oh and any single parents who are also authors or artists out there that actually get any work done and still get all meals into their kids bellies and interact with their kids… yep… kudos to you. Cause this shit is hard.

The old me may have envied the person who stayed in this room before me having all the alcohol and acrobatic sex they could squeeze in between check in and check out. But right now, there is no place I’d rather be.

Love

Amberley

Uncategorized

I’m not religious but … thoughts on first drafts.

I’m not religious but I do believe in things we do not understand

Things science cannot yet explain

I’m not religious but I do believe in some sort of power, some sort of being or beings, some sort of guidance or plan or fate or destiny or path.

I cannot believe in cautionary tales written by men thirsting for control. But I do believe in the kindness of a stranger when you need it most. The coincidence is too perfect. I believe in the grace of rain when you are parched.

I am not religious but I pray. I do not kneel by my bed. Beads and a cross and a tiny dead man murdered for me to feel guilt, do not dangle from my shaking fists or pointing fingers. My hands do not tremble as I say a silent thank you for the person who did not need their furniture so they gave it all away. I say thank you for the person who breaks rules if it means a family can sleep under a roof. I say thank you for friends whose love is as limitless and bright as all the stars.

I’m not religious but I still sleep with a medallion above my head. St George and his faithful steed and even his dragon are with me always. The hand I can hold when I am alone. The symbol of my own strength. The only knight in shining arm that has ever saved me.

I’m not religious but I know wrong from right. I know good from bad. A moral compass is not just cross shaped. And even evil can bare a crucifix around its neck. A hoodie can hide a halo.

I’m not religious but I do not fear death but nor do I welcome it. Whether there is darkness or pearly gates/white fluffy clouds/angels singing on high/my old dog Ralph or rebirth. I will not know for sure, 100% , until I am there.

Even if we did know, 100%, that there was darkness and nothing more, I would still live the same way.

I’m not religious but I do believe in souls or that peiple can be soulful, and in soul food, and in soul searching, and that people can be soulless.

I do not believe in coincidence.

I do not believe in luck.

I do not believe in Jesus anymore than I believe in Thor or Ra or Satan or Hera.

Does this make me a bad person?

I’m not religious but I do believe in something… I believe that we all have a choice.

This is what one of my poems looks like in draft form. No editing.

I thought I would share it so people could see what a lump of unmoulded writing looks like. Kinda ugly, huh?

But we must treat all of our writing like our word-babies. Defend your ugly word-baby! Your word-baby is fucking beautiful to you and that’s all that matters. Now you just have to raise it to be the best word-person you can. It’ll never be perfect, just like real children and humans, but we keep trying.

Now, go forth and create your hideous word-brats without fear or self-loathing.

Love

Amberley

Art, bloggity blog

The futility of saving dying things

When on holidays, I was at a beach where hundreds of these big guys were washing up in the surf, still singing, salt caking their tracheae. the sea gulls were having a feast.

I picked up a few, figuring they were all going to die soon anyway. But if I had to choose dying in the shade of a tree or dying on burning sand, drowning or being eaten alive slowly then I know which one I would choose.

I couldn’t “save” a lot. Peiple looked at me very strangely too, walking back and forth from the surf to the trees, in a dress not suitable for the beach, carrying the giant bugs as carefully as if they were children and even speaking to them… yep. That’s me. Talking to bugs and trying to do what I thought was the “right thing to do.”

But was I just prolonging their suffering?

Was it mean to the sea gulls to deprive them of this rare opportunity, this delicacy? Did some sea gull babies go hungry that day because I prolonged the life of already dying bugs?

I have no idea.

But these are the things that plague me.

Villainous and virtuous seem to be dependent on the side of the fence you are on to begin with. And this eats at me. So much so, this is what my current novel is about.

Which is super important in fiction writing. Most people do not think they are a “bad guy.”

I’m not really giving advice, because writing advice from anyone besides people like Stephen King, Jack Vance, Raymond E Fiest, Robert McCammon, or any other truly great writer, is bullshit. But I am more just having a public conversation with myself that may help other writers think about what they are writing.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog

Still Breathing

The thing about hitting rock bottom is that you never really know when you are there until you start to build up from it. Or until you are away from it.

You can assume that “it couldn’t get any worse,” but these words are often folly and should be treated in the same way as “Lord Voldemort,” (For the muggles – don’t fucking say it out loud)

Sometimes we find ourselves so broken we do not know what to do, where do we go from whatever shit-heap life has dolloped on us. But that is the thing about “Rock Bottom” is it can be a perfectly solid foundation on which we can rebuild ourselves.

And quiet often people get stuck here, in this mental and emotional wastelands that is Rock Bottom. We become so afraid to continue on, so afraid to live, that we get stuck floundering.

Rock Bottom is sort of like a basement/dead-end-town. Sometimes we have to go down there, forced to tip-toe down the creaky steps, breathing in the putrid, mouldy air, but it is not good for us to make a bed down there and exist down there. It is not living. We become hollowed out and empty.

Residency in Rock Bottom should be short lived, if possible. But, if you find yourself there, building your life back up should start immediately. The building process doesn’t need to be quick. Slow and precise is probably preferable. As long as there is some upwards movement, some growth, some positive change.

If you aren’t the building type, in Rock Bottom there is this place, kind of like a lookout. But from there you can actually see a great deal – often both bad and good. You can actually jump from this place. This is the only way to get to the good things you can see in the distance. The problem is that there is no concrete guarantee that you will land with the good.

And to take this leap you have to have a certain amount of faith. This faith does not have to be in God or gods or the universe or The Flying Spaghetti Monster. It can be in yourself. Failing all of those options, it could be faith in your desperation to get the fuck out of Rock Bottom.

I know I am rambling. Forgive me and please understand that this is as much for my own healing than it is to spread some sort of hope to the people.

I read a really good article by EC Myers on TerribleMinds and that is to do with Dystopian worlds and how they are a mirror of the way our current world is travelling. And it made me think of all this stuff.

We are often trying to do so much for the greater good or for others that we fo not take the time to look at our own stuff. Or we are so caught up in Rock Bottom that we forget about the big crazy world around us.

Both are provlems but they are fixable and the strategies are sort of the same.

Pick a goal. Head for that goal. Stop for nothing.

Choose small, easy to reach goals and then once you have completed that goal then pick another.

If your goal is to “become a rich and famous author,” that’s a fucking hard goal. Start small. “I’m going to write a book. I’m going to write said book 500 words at a time.”

Or, if you are new to Rock Bottom, you could start smaller. “I’m going to get out of bed today.” “I am going to take a shower today.” “I will eat something other than coffee or rum or chocolate … maybe not instead of but as well as.”

My psychologist had set the goal for me to “get my life back on track.” I told her, “first, I need to build a track because I fear that I never really had one.” And if I did have a track then it was one of those ones that kids play with, you know, the wooden ones that click together.

If you made it this far, (congrats and thank you!) then you may be as broken as I am. If you are, you are not alone. Remember that broken bones heal, broken people heal, it is possible to come back from Rock Bottom stronger than you were before.

Just remember, you are still breathing.

Love,

Amberley.

bloggity blog

Thoughts on beach photography

As I wander along the beautiful beach I am camping by, I simply cannot help but take out my phone and take snap shots.

It is so in our nature to do so. Our phones are like a limb now, never leaving our side and if we loose it we feel the lost-itch of its missing presence – the phantom pain of this served appendage.

But it leads me to thinking about how many people have taken a photo of this very rock formation, this same stretch of sand and surf and it makes me put down my phone for a moment.

So, if there are already photos of this beach out there somewhere, in fact, EVERY beach, why do we keep snapping?

You could say that each photo would vary slightly, different waves, a change salt crystal clusters and sand grain placement, clouds and shells and critters woulf all vary from photo to photo. But aren’t they all basically the same thing?

Or does the artist matter?

Or is the real difference in the meaning to us? To the artist?

Melancholy crept up my throat as I stared out to sea. Out into the blueberry waters that had been captured byany other artists before me. It felt useless for a moment. Worthless. If I wanted to look back I could use my memory or simply type the beach’s name into Google images.

But, since this my journey, my time to record and create, I lifted my phone up again and cotinued snapping.

As an artist, what’s the point of having an experience if you can’t create something from it?

Love

Amberley